


The Voice On The Radio

by Brumeier



Series: Bite Sized Fic [115]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, M/M, Prompt Fill, Radio, Suicidal Thoughts, Virus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LJ Comment Fic for Hurt/Comfort prompt: <i>Any, Any, </i></p><p> <i>And I'll be your hope when you feel like it's over</i><br/><i>And I will pick you up when your whole world shatters</i><br/><i>And when you're finally in my arms</i><br/><i>Look up and see love has a face</i></p><p> <i>I am with you</i><br/><i>I will carry you through it all</i><br/><i>I won't leave you, I will catch you</i><br/><i>When you feel like letting go</i><br/><i>'Cause you're not, you're not alone</i></p><p>- Red - Not Alone</p><p>In which the author writes a companion fic to Not The Last Man from John's POV, and we learn how Rodney saved his life before they ever met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Voice On The Radio

John first heard it on what was meant to be his last day. He’d been camping out at the mall, finishing up his bucket list (reading _War and Peace_ , streaking, shouting _I’m gay_! at the top of his lungs), and had gone to Barnes  & Noble to put on some music so the gunshot wouldn’t be the last thing he heard.

There was no electricity, but he plugged some batteries into a portable CD player and let his thumb roll through the FM dials while he flipped through CDs with his other hand. Johnny Cash would be ideal, although he’d had Blue Öyster Cult in his head for a week. _Don’t Fear the Reaper_ seemed like a fitting farewell song.

And then, amid the endless static from the empty airwaves, there was a voice. John jerked in surprise, and then had to spin the dial back to find the right station, his heart pounding. Had he imagined it?

No. There it was. A man’s voice on the radio. John stared at the CD player, and wondered if he was going crazy.

_…homoerotic tale of one man’s love for a whale. I mean, what kind of thing is that to read to a six year old? Herman Melville was one sick puppy. He essentially wrote this insane novel of gay porn and it’s been taught in schools as great literature. Which is just one more thing I don’t miss about society at large. People were idiots._

John had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing hysterically. And really, when was the last time he’d actually had something to laugh about? Not since before everyone started dropping dead all around him.

_You know what I do miss? Food. Processed food full of preservatives and gluten and high fructose corn syrup. And bacon. I really miss bacon. If I had any background in butchering I’d try to catch one of the wild pigs and make some bacon out of it. Then again, my cholesterol is probably the lowest it’s ever been. What do you think about that, Dr. Simons? Condescending asshole. All that unhealthy eating and look at me, still alive. Must be doing something right. Or wrong, depending on your point of view._

Without realizing it, John had put both hands on the CD player ( _Put your hands on the radio! Say ‘amen’!_ ) and was crouched down so that his ear was practically next to the speaker.

_Well, I guess that’s it for today. Rodney McKay signing out._

“No,” John whispered, but there was only silence coming from the radio. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the CD player. 

He wasn’t alone. And it turned out he wasn’t quite ready to die.

*o*o*o*

John was sleeping in Mattress World, his favorite mattress outfitted with the highest thread count sheets he could find at Linens & Things. No reason not to splurge. He’d abandoned the CD player for a smaller radio, and every afternoon, at precisely the same time, he’d turn it on and wait for Rodney McKay’s broadcast.

_Here I am. Rodney McKay, coming to you courtesy of some dead guy’s ham radio. Funny, isn’t it, how the end of the world changes things? I never thought I’d be living in a cul de sac, like some kind of suburban drone. I wouldn’t have come near the place before everything went to hell, I can tell you that. Dad out mowing the lawn, kids playing street hockey, Mom doing whatever the hell it is moms do. That kind of comfortable domesticity always terrified me._

_I was a scientist, before. Not the ones that made the fucking virus, and I hope they died slow and with full knowledge of how they fucked us all over. No, I was an astrophysicist. If this had been one of those stupid disaster movies people used to love so much, I would’ve been on a team that saved humanity by launching us out into space or something equally ludicrous._

_I’ll never get there now._

John carried the radio with him as he went about his day, skateboarding through the lower level and practicing with the compound bow he’d picked up in Dick’s and looking for new books to read. He wished Rodney would give his location, because then John could go there. He wanted to see Rodney, talk to him. Let him know he wasn’t alone, that his broadcast was being heard. That he’d saved John’s life, for whatever that was worth these days.

_Question of the day: If Superman were real, would he have survived the EL virus? He was an alien, after all, different physiology. Or was he close enough, like the monkeys, that he would’ve died too? If he survived, he could do that thing where he reversed the rotation of the Earth and turned back time – which is completely laughable and wrong, wrong, wrong, by the way – and stopped the idiot biologists from creating the virus._

_Or maybe he’d have just flown off to some other planet. So long and thanks for all the fish, as it were. Maybe society was too sick to save. If I believed in God, I’d know where to point the finger._

Every day John lived with the fear that the previous broadcast would’ve been the last, that Rodney’s voice would vanish from the airways and never reappear. What if he got taken down by a pack of feral dogs? What if he fell down the stairs and broke his neck? What if he gave in to the despair that so often tinged his voice and did what John had originally planned?

_I had a dream about my sister Jeannie last night. I miss her. I never got the chance to apologize for being such a jerk. What does it matter if she married an English teacher and turned her back on her intellectual gifts? I bet she was happy. She had a family, a husband and a daughter. All I had was my work. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my job. I loved unlocking the mysteries of the universe. But now I’ll never have the chance for something more, even if I wanted it. Being the last man on Earth sucks._

It wasn’t the first time John found himself nodding along. He and Rodney had a lot in common. Similar sense of humor, similar taste in movies. And John knew all about family estrangement. He’d broken the travel ban trying to get back to Virginia, to set things right with his father. He hadn’t gotten there in time.

And then, after twenty-one broadcasts, John finally got the information he wanted. He just hoped he wouldn’t be too late for Rodney, because the man sounded like he was hanging on by his fingertips.

_The wolves were back last night. They know I’m here. Fresh meat. I hate the sounds they make. As if I needed another reminder that I’m all alone. I’ve boarded up the downstairs windows, but that doesn’t mean they can’t get in, right? I mean, if they want me bad enough they’ll find a way. I don’t want to die like that. I don’t…I don’t want to die alone. I don’t want to do anything alone anymore. I never got along with people, not even my own family, but now…is there even anyone out there listening to this?_

_This is Dr. Rodney McKay, broadcasting from Halton Hills, Ontario, Canada. If there’s anyone out there, anywhere, please…_

The transmission cut off and John found himself clutching the radio to his chest.

“Hang in there, buddy,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”

*o*o*o*

It took John eight days to make the trip to Canada on his mountain bike. If there’d been even intermittent electricity, he would’ve gone to the nearest military base and commandeered a chopper. He missed flying, so damn much. But the bike was what he had, and with it the advantage of moving silently up the highway so as not to draw any unwanted attention from predators.

He’d stocked up on batteries before he left, and lashed the radio to the handlebars. He only stopped when he absolutely had to, to take a leak or scout out a house to stay in once it got dark.

The world was incredibly quiet these days. No cars, no planes, no hum from electrical towers. John passed by empty cities that had become monuments to a society that had passed away. Nature was slowly overtaking them, and sometimes John felt like he’d gone back in time, any minute expecting a T-Rex to come crashing out onto the asphalt.

Rodney was with him all the way, his daily broadcasts never faltering despite his growing despair. He kept John going, when he was so tired he wanted to just sleep for days and when eight hundred miles seemed too far, too much, too impossible.

_I don’t think I would’ve made a good boyfriend, never mind husband. Too focused on my work. It defined me, validated me, the way nothing else ever did. Without it, what am I? Just another asshole. I never really appreciated other people until it started to look like there wouldn’t be any more, and then it was too late. Too late to put someone else’s life and happiness ahead of my own. Is that why I’m the last man? Some kind of cruel irony? If so, well played Fate. Well played._

John almost wept when he came to the border crossing and the Peace Bridge beyond it. He never thought he’d be so happy to see the Canadian maple leaf. He wanted to ride straight through to Halton Hills, but that would’ve been both risky and stupid; especially since he was so close. He spent the night in Burlington in a third floor apartment that had a balcony and the desiccated remains of a small animal in the second bedroom.

He dreamed that Rodney was a moose.

*o*o*o*

Halton Hills was nothing more than a housing development outside of Acton. John biked through it until he found a house with boarded up windows on the first floor, but no amount of knocking brought anyone out. He could’ve just gone in – who locks a house after the apocalypse? – but it felt wrong.

Instead, John left the bike in the driveway and poked around the house across the street. There wasn’t anything of value to find there, probably because Rodney had already gone through it, but it kept him occupied while he waited.

There was something infinitely sad about seeing the things people left behind: their family photos, trinkets saved from vacations and weddings, fancy soaps in the bathroom. Nothing but dust collectors now, the families already forgotten because there was no-one to remember them.

It was the sound of humming that alerted John to Rodney’s return, and for a moment he found it impossible to pull in a breath. John hadn’t seen another living human being in over a year, and now that the moment was upon him he was nervous. What if Rodney didn’t want anything to do with him?

John slipped out on the front porch, moving as silently as he could with the big backpack still strapped to his shoulders. Rodney was across the street, staring at John’s bike in his driveway. John drank in the sight of him, taking careful note of every detail. Rodney had broad shoulders, and a fairly sturdy build for someone who didn’t have much access to processed food. He looked strong. And he was inexplicably clean-shaven.

Without even realizing he was moving, John found himself at the curb. He must’ve made a noise, because Rodney whirled around to face him.

No-one had ever looked so good.

John took a step forward and Rodney stumbled back. In the next second, John had a shotgun pointed in his direction, which wasn’t ideal. He could only hope Rodney didn’t have an itchy trigger finger.

It took him a couple tries to get the words out. “I won’t hurt you. I heard you. On the radio. Rodney, right?”

John wanted to touch Rodney, and be touched in return. He wanted to listen to Rodney breathe. But most especially he wanted to listen to Rodney talk, just as he’d done on the radio the past month. He wanted Rodney to talk all day, and not just for an hour. About anything. About nothing.

But Rodney was just staring at him with wide eyes, shotgun in his hands.

“My name’s John. I came a long way to find you, and just…could you please _say_ something?”

“I’m Rodney. Rodney McKay.”

John let out a shaky breath. “If I come over there, are you gonna shoot me?”

Rodney shook his head, and pointed the shotgun at the sidewalk. It was all the inducement John needed. He felt like he was moving in slow motion, or maybe floating, as he walked across the street. He knew he should take it slow, not freak the guy out, but it was _Rodney_. And John realized he’d fallen in love with the sound of Rodney’s voice on the radio.

As soon as he got close enough he pulled Rodney into a hug. And when Rodney hugged him back, John dropped his head on Rodney’s shoulder and cried.

**Two Months Later**

John stared at the radio, his hand tightly clutching Rodney’s. It had switched on, all by itself, and was broadcasting, and John didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know what to say.

_This is Colonel Sam Carter of the SGC. We’re looking for survivors. Does anyone copy?_

The message had been playing on a loop when he and Rodney had woken up that morning. They weren’t even dressed, still in their pajamas and slippers. 

They weren’t the last men on Earth. John didn’t know how to feel about that. 

_This is Colonel Sam Carter of the SGC. We’re looking for survivors. Does anyone copy?_

Rodney tugged John in for a kiss, his free hand stroking down the side of John’s face. “What do we have to lose?” he asked.

John could think of a lot of things.

Rodney tugged his hand free and sat down in front of the radio. He picked up the microphone.

“Rodney McKay and John Sheppard, Halton Hills, Ontario, Canada. We copy.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **AN:** Companion fic to [Not The Last Man](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7880740). I wasn’t going to write more, but then at work I kept thinking of John’s side of things and I just had to.
> 
> This also fills the Isolation square on my hurt/comfort bingo card.


End file.
